Quick: what field crop comes to mind of when you think of the Napa Valley? If you immediately thought "mustard," you're not wrong, and you're not alone. In the right circles, the Napa Valley is as well known for its mustard as it is for that other crop which does well there. Those fields of endless yellow are celebrated in festivals, are a staple of local cuisines both formal and informal, and are a welcome sight in the great client-relations tradition of the Napa Valley gift basket.

It was in one such that I recently received a jar of Napa Valley Mustard Company mustard. I received the gift basket around the holidays but what with getting blotto on New Year's Eve and a more recent mishap involving a brace of oysters on the half shell, I just got around to tasting it. Wow. This jar was Whole Grain with Chilis and Garlic.

If only whoever packed that picnic knew who they were packing for! Anyone who knows me or has seen me eat knows that mustard is one of my favorite foods. I cannot fathom a sandwich without it, but in a pinch I am fine with slathering it on a cracker. I put in in sauces of every kind from the obvious Dijonnaise and salad dressing to the more esoteric dilled cream. I am dauntless in mustard tastings. I swill it in my mouth like an oenophile showing off, and thereafter I make pronouncements on its mouth feel, its quality, its tartness, its sweetness, its heat, its umami.

In case you're interested and if you didn't already know, a food writer typically does a tasting by starting with the food in as bare a state as it allows: for example, a coffee taster takes a slurp of freshly brewed coffee from whatever bean is under investigation without tarting it up with sugar, fattening it with dairy, or allowing a cool-down period. So in testing mustard, one starts with the bare condiment and, if found agreeable, progresses through pairings. Is this a hot dog mustard or an hors d'oeuvres one? Is this a corned-beef-on-rye mustard or a poached salmon one? Has anyone ever considered a mustard filling for artisinal chocolate, or how about mustard ice cream? And so forth until one comes to and finds a stack of handwritten notes and a half-empty bottle of mustard.

The tasting for Napa Valley Mustard Company Whole Grain Mustard with Chills and Garlic went something like this: open jar. Note aroma: earthy and robust, at first guess a biergarten mustard. Taste: again earthy, with a opening note of vinegar and onion led by a welcome, caviar-like pop of seeds and proceeding to a mid-palate explosion of heat (assisted, no doubt, by the chili and garlic but without either over-asserting their presence) and that ineffable mustardy character that has caused this herb to be cultivated since the ancient world. In fact, that's a good description of this mustard: it evokes visions somewhere between lunchtime during the harvest in the ancient Loire Valley and a seasonal feast in a medieval abbey. The taste ends on a satisfying, poetic note: the cool breeze ruffling the wort tops at ebb of day.

This butch mustard would be perfectly at home on a sandwich: I'd do a good salty ham with nutty Jarlsberg on grainy brown bread, but the turkey on wheat crowd won't be disappointed. It will be stellar in salad dressing balanced against other ingredients that can stand up to it without trying to tussle: red or white wine vinegars are probably too acidic or weak respectively, but sherry or balsamic should work nicely. And if you want to put a jar by the six-foot sub at your Superbowl party, it will play nicely, even if the teams, your guests, or Janet Jackson's wardrobe mistress don't.

Napa Valley Mustard Company makes a variety of mustards, widely available by mail order, including here and here.